


Keep Breathing

by orphan_account



Category: Hitman (Video Games)
Genre: Assassination, Gen, One Shot, POV Second Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-26
Updated: 2020-09-26
Packaged: 2021-03-07 17:33:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 711
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26661493
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: All you have to do is keep breathing.
Comments: 2
Kudos: 11





	Keep Breathing

You've been riding high for the last few hours, hot on the heels of a phone call confirming that your latest major business deal had come to a mutually-agreeable closure. You could scarcely believe it at the time, and it took damn near all you had not to let the excitement seep into your tone as their liaison gave you the good news. For a few days, something horrible had been sitting in your gut, something telling you that taking this deal was a bad idea, that nothing good could come of selling off the company's now-obsolete targetting software to a proxy who'd sell it onto... well, someone who didn't bear thinking about.

Legally speaking, it was all above board, but that was an easy guarantee when you had an army of corporate lawyers behind you, making sure that the company would never take any blame for anything that happened now that their former pride and joy was out in the world. No, it was your _morals_ that were being tested here, and you felt like you'd given away a part of yourself that you'd never get back, but you'd have been lying to yourself if you said that the commission fee you'd be receiving wasn't helping smooth it all over.

You order a bottle of champagne up to your office, confident in the knowledge that no one was going to object to the newest hotshot exec in the building taking a day to gloat, to celebrate, to relax and enjoy the fruits of his labours. For most of the day, your office had become a parade of bootlickers, sycophants, and seemingly-sincere well-wishers, all hoping that you'd carry them along on your coattails while you rode the wave of success, but you prided yourself on being smart enough to see through the liars, the deceivers, the wolves who still thought you were a sheep.

It didn't take too long before an intern you hadn't bothered to recognise placed the bottle on your desk, his eyes glaring into yours for just a moment too long, just long enough for you to feel a panic rising in your chest that you'd sooner die than admit to feeling. You look away before he does, and you hope the fear won't show on your face. Try as you might, you can't quite chalk it up to jealousy, and suddenly you don't feel thirsty any more, and suddenly celebrating is the last thing on your mind.

* * *

It passes, as these things do, and at the tail end of your day you decide to finally pour yourself a flute, but something feels wrong. You're not sure what, but you suddenly feel sick, and you start panicking, paranoia rushing through your blood as you make a beeline for one of the executive bathrooms, trying desperately to convince yourself that this was just a prank, that someone had poured salt into the bottle or something else, something benign, but you remember the look on the intern's face and as you drop to your knees, desperate fingers pawing at your throat to get whatever this is out of your body, the fear starts to sink in.

You feel a hand, almost weightless, roughly caressing the back of your head, your face inching closer to the vomit-filled bowl that you can't bare to look at, and then you're struggling with what little strength you have left. A part of you already knows that your efforts are fruitless, that this is how you meet your maker, but there's a sense of pride in you that tells you that you're going to put up a fight. The vomit-tinged water you're choking on soon knocks that idea out of your head for good, and you consign yourself to knowing that this is how it ends for you, and try to find some measure of peace in it.

You're not breathing any more, and all you can think in your last moments is that you should have savoured it while you could. Your body slumps onto the tile floor, and the man you thought was an intern calmly changes back into his suit and tie, leaving you behind for the janitors as he disappears back into the shadows, just as quickly as he'd left them.


End file.
